


Gimme Shelter

by jack_cole



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other, Pre-Slash, descriptions of violence/injuries, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_cole/pseuds/jack_cole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it take to send Mike Ross rushing across the city in the middle of the night? Starts with "H" and rhymes with "arvey".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gimme Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hugely flattered that Aaron Korsh and I apparently surf the same brain wave...wrote this several episodes before Harvey got decked in the show. Huge on plot with some h/c goodies at the end. Done for a challenge/exchange on tumblr, unsure whether I'm going to do a sequel or not, but for now consider this a [1/1] rather than [1/?].

It took more than four phone calls to wake Mike Ross up at 3:47 am on a Tuesday. Seven, in fact. And two texts.

And although there were no voicemails resultant from the calls which had eventually prized him awake, he didn’t have to look at his cell to know who’s calling; the ringtone told him that. The chorus from ‘Gimme Shelter’ by the Stones was only appropriate for one person in Mike’s contacts. Mike sometimes even allowed himself a pat on the back for that double entendre—as his boss and as a man, Harvey was an unstoppable force in Mike’s life now, to both shelter from and shelter behind as Mike rode out the hurricane of his ass-backwards education in law. He’s pleased enough to hold off from changing it, even when he finds out the original Star Trek theme would be just as appropriate.

It was surprising but not unprecedented for Harvey to skip right from voicemail to text. Usually he seemed to prefer the directness of a voicemail, as few could contend with his most condescending tone of voice and Harvey knew it. On the other hand, in some situations propriety demanded he summon Mike to a boardroom with a text under the table when he couldn’t break negotiations to locate his associate. But texts had become the exclusive province of emergencies ever since an Autocorrect debacle had gotten them both into trouble with Jessica.

As Mike rubbed his eyes and tried vainly to tame his hair—a habit from when he was lucky to get out of the house without Gram taking a comb and some weird smelling pomade to his cowlicks—he checked the time on his phone again. There was no doubt that he was reading it right...and nothing to do but open the texts as he walked to the kitchen to fumble around in the fridge for some juice. The first missive was straightforward as all Harvey’s conversation was, and had arrived between the third and fourth calls.

< _Get up. Need you &your brain. NOW. –H_>

Mike poured himself a glass of orange juice in a cup he thought might be clean. Demanding, as always, and at an unusual time of night no less, but nothing to get too excited about. He’d finish the juice, throw on jeans and a blazer (even Specter couldn’t expect a guy to fully suit up at this time of night, but there was no guarantee there wasn’t some crazy client with Harvey right now either) and text Harvey about where he needed him to be. The second text was probably more of the same, both because Harvey Specter was not a man who liked to be kept waiting, and because he knew his associate’s sleeping habits fairly well. Mike’s first weeks on the job had been brutal to his night-owl nature. Mike checked the second text anyway though, hoping it might shed some light on  _where_  Harvey wanted him so Mike didn’t have to ask. His fine motor skills were seemingly still asleep, but he finally managed to juggle drinking and manipulating his phone at the same time, wishing once again he could spend less on suits and manage to get a smartphone so his texts would thread in a conversation in that cool way Harvey’s phone did. When the second text opened, a quarter of a glass of juice ran down the front of Mike’s t-shirt.

< _If you don’t get to my place before the police leave, you’re fired. –H_ >

A clean shirt and a cab ride later, Mike would have been knocking on Harvey’s front door (or was it the back door, Mike was never sure what the private elevator counted as), except for the platoon of New York’s finest who were exiting through it just then. One, who looked like a detective, moved to stop him with a question on his lips, but then part of Harvey came into view through the doorway and called to Mike.

“What, are you lobbying for slowest employee of ever? Get in here, you have a lot of case files to organize.”

Harvey’s voice had the usual edge to it, but somehow not the usual bite. As Mike edged past the cops without meeting any of their gazes, he was granted a full view of ground zero. Harvey’s normally immaculately organized penthouse was a study in dichotomy. The combination of the ultra-modern (some might even say  _Spartan_ ) fixtures with the papers, records, glass, and other pieces of Harvey’s life strewn about was shocking to Mike, and also somehow chilling. People just did not mess with Harvey Specter. Not like this.  
The juxtaposition to be read in Harvey was even more offensive to Mike’s regard of the man. Had he been asked (he flattered himself that no one had a clue, but if bets were to be laid there was even money he didn’t fool Donna one bit), Mike would have lied through his teeth about Harvey—he was an ass, but one who was great at his job; he did what needed to be done, and did so with a personal style and flair that was intended to be every bit as cocky as it was, to distract from the man beneath the veneer. He had a reputation to uphold, and Mike would not cast the first stone. But the truth of the matter was that slowly, so gradually he had hardly realized it was happening, Mike Ross had fallen in love with Harvey Specter. On good days, Mike had himself convinced it was in a professional, mentor-ly, knowledge-admiring capacity that he looked on Harvey with fondness, like a crusty old coach or a favorite science professor. On others, Mike found himself in his cubicle struggling to remember what he was supposed to be doing with the stack of papers newly dropped on his desk, because he had been fantasizing about what Harvey’s lips would feel like on his as the senior partner had unceremoniously delivered more work to his associate. This was the first time Mike had ever had to deal with this sort of thinking when it wasn’t about someone who looked like Rachel Zane. He did everything he could at first to ignore or explain away what he was thinking to himself, but eventually he had to grudgingly admit that he  _enjoyed_  contemplating Harvey’s strong forearms and what they hinted at about the rest of him when he rolled up his sleeves to pull an all-nighter with Mike on a case—rare indeed since it was basically Mike’s job description to save Harvey from that sort of gruntwork, but occasionally a client was too important or too wily to be trusted to just Mike. Rather than going through some existential crisis, however, Mike took it as he had most of the curveballs life had thrown at him. If the people who would care—Harvey—never found out about the problem, there was no problem.

It was partly the innocent experience of working closely with someone, and part Mike’s fantastic memory allowing him hours of contemplation when he couldn’t fall asleep, but he instantly read so many small cues on Harvey that few others would catch or understand. So many small cues that pointed to anger, and violence, and something….something Mike had never seen. There was plenty that was obvious, though. Harvey’s hair was perfectly styled and gelled in place, as usual, except for a lock that broke ranks and thrust out in a fetching comma above Harvey’s right eye, shadowing what could have been a scratch. That roguish look was offset, but then again maybe enhanced , by the just-starting-to-purple bruise on Harvey’s left cheekbone, close enough under his eye that the swelling would probably soon affect his vision if he didn’t ice it. He wore a fantastically tailored (as always) dinner jacket, looking like it was straight off the runway from Tom Ford (it probably was), with the bowtie dangling untied around his neck and half of the collar of his white silk dress shirt popped up, mostly obscuring bruises and scratches from his jaw to his collarbone. His sleeves were surprisingly in order, but one cuff was sans platinum cufflink. The pants, unfortunately, were probably a lost cause, even though Harvey used some magic cleaner that only he and Donna knew about. Smashed glass or the corners of furniture had torn the knees to ribbons, and there was dirt scuffed and ground in all over. Mike had wanted to rebut Harvey’s jest with one of his own about at least hiring a cab rather than riding his bike, but instead just stared, waiting in the hollow silence after the front door shut behind the policemen.

For his part, Harvey stood there like it was business as usual. His quick appraisal of Mike’s outfit lead to a single raised eyebrow that was like judgment from on high. Mike had skipped any contemplation of a blazer after reading the second text, and grabbed the first clean t-shirt and pair of jeans he could find. Unfortunately that meant he stood before the sartorial king in a Harvard Law shirt he’d picked up on an alibi-researching trip and some of his most comfortable but also most threadbare jeans. The softshell jacket he’d just saved up for, shaving a little off the top of his suit budget, was highly practical for the fall evening but combined with his old sneakers and the rest of his ensemble to make him look like a wannabe frat boy.

“Well, get to work. The Casey and Hernandez files, as well as that research you brought me on Raytheon, are all in front of you.” Harvey gestured nonchalantly about the living room before shoving his hand back into his pants pocket. Only then did Mike realize he’d had his hands resolutely shoved there since Mike walked in, and the quick swipe gave Mike a pretty good idea why. There were more bruises and not a few cuts on Harvey’s knuckles and across the back of his hand. He’d punched something—or somebody.

“Harvey, I—“ Mike faltered.

“What?” Harvey cut across him, but again his voice lacked its usual conviction.

“What….what happened?” Mike finally mumbled, like a kid who knows he’s not going to like the answer to the question he just asked.

Harvey just looked from Mike to the devastation around them. “Get something done, then maybe you’ll earn storytime.”

Mike went to work on the mess, clearing the couch first because it seemed to have most of the Raytheon file blanketing it, then moving to the bookcase and carefully extricating records from the piles on the floor in front of them. Harvey moved to the kitchen, which was mostly shielded from Mike’s view, but he heard the tap run and then the clink of glass. Mike actually got so engrossed in his sorting that by the time he had the living room in passable shape (at least the case files were in order and there were paths around the shattered glass of the coffee table and lamps), he hardly noticed Harvey come back into the room. When he did look up, he unconsciously met the older man’s eyes for a split second before Harvey apparently returned to his contemplation of the skyline, resting his forehead on one arm against the glass while the other dangled almost limply at his side, a bottle of wine hanging from his fingertips. Mike felt his heart breaking but at the same time he was mesmerized as he studied Harvey’s profile in the reflected light of the city and the one surviving lamp in the room. The expression on Harvey’s face wasn’t just blank—he could command one of the most expressive empty stares in the whole of the New York Bar Association—it was detached, somehow even broken. Mike wanted to go hug Harvey so bad he could clearly see it in his mind, wrapping himself around his mentor comfortingly and protectingly…but the mental cinema also showed in painful detail what Mike thought would be Harvey’s inevitable disgust and anger. Still, Mike couldn’t make himself stand in the center of the room for much longer. He crossed the distance between them and grasped Harvey’s shoulder in a manly fashion, as he would anyone he was trying to reassure and coax out of reticence.

Harvey shook him off immediately and retreated from Mike’s presence to the only undamaged piece of furniture in the room, the couch. Angling himself into one corner, he removed a wineglass from where it had been, unnoticed by Mike, obtruding from one of his pockets. The bottle was uncorked, and he poured himself a generous glass of the pinot noir before settling back on the couch and turning his hollow gaze on the wine in his hand. Seconds before Mike screwed up the courage to, Harvey broke the silence.

“You know I was going to the Met tonight. Say what you want—if you had seen this girl, you’d have agreed she was worth taking to the opera. Unfortunately, she was not worth a damn at cocktails afterwards, and got so drunk I had to cut the evening short and drop her back at her place.” After so many words in a row Harvey seemed exhausted suddenly. Mike was willing to bet he had been exhausted for a while, but bit his tongue as Harvey sipped the wine and then skewered Mike with another appraising look. Without stopping his sip, he produced another glass from another pocket and poured. With the barest flick of his wrist he indicated Mike and then held out the glass. Mike approached as slowly as he dared, like he imagined you might walk up to a spooked horse, and took it, trying not to stare at the damage to Harvey’s usually immaculate hands. He sat down on the couch, somewhere in the awkward middle space, trying not to encroach on Harvey’s sensibilities but not look like he was avoiding proximity either.

“So obviously,” Harvey continued, “I was home earlier than I expected. Earlier than…someone else expected too, apparently.” His voice dwindled to almost nothing, betraying the disquiet he had sought to cover up earlier by treating Mike like they were at the office. “My door was open but I was hardly paying attention as I walked in on him. Straight out of a movie, all black including a black ball cap. Standing right in here, going through things with a flashlight, tossing anything he didn’t want. I flipped on the lights and started to ask him what the hell he was doing, but he just came at me.” A pause to settle a shaking hand on his glass as he drank more wine. “You don’t need a play by play, but I’d like to think I gave as good as I got.” Mike hoped so. It looked like Harvey had gotten quite a lot, as more of the bruises ripened on his upper body. And clearly retelling the tale (for probably at least the third time, considering the police) was taking a toll on Harvey’s beloved self control.  Mike tried to buy him a little time to regroup.

“Well he can’t have gotten far if you roughed him up, Harvey. And the cops can do all that CSI crap and search video for him. It doesn’t look like he took anything even. I just wish you could have let him go with less of a fight,” Mike caught himself, “I mean because I don’t want you to be off for too long or Louis will never let me go.”

Harvey almost smiled, whether at Mike’s joke or his innocence it was unclear, but the swelling on his face made him freeze mid-gesture and sigh. “It’s not that easy. This isn’t exactly a high profile case for the boys in blue. The guy got one case file, just one, and I don’t know if it was on purpose or coincidence but it’s only a problem for Pearson Hardman, not the citizens of our fair city. Nobody was hurt—“ Mike scoffed into his wine “—okay, nobody was hurt  _badly_ , or killed, and nothing of intrinsic value was stolen. Not even my goddamn watches or anything…” Harvey just stopped. Mike wasn’t sure, from the mix of emotions that flashed across his face, if he was going to finish that idea or not, so he sat silent and watched as something completely foreign replaced the various shades of anger and rage on Harvey’s countenance.

Harvey’s brown eyes, usually dancing with wit or smoldering with indignation but dull now, held Mike’s for a long moment. Instead of feeling stripped down as the receiver of the gaze, Mike instead felt like Harvey was peeling away in front of him. Whereas his voice had been hoarse but steady all night, now Harvey wavered as much as Mike did when called out in front of Jessica.

“How could this happen? To me?  _Me_. Do you know how powerless this makes a guy feel? MY apartment, MY home, I can’t. Mike…” He sighed, and a little of the normal, kick-ass-and-take-names Harvey flickered to life, “…If you ever mention this to anyone, I’ll kill you. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.” Without waiting for a smile of recognition from the associate, Harvey ran a hand through his hair and pulled his knees up to his chest on the couch. Under the pretense of refilling wine glasses Mike slid a little closer to him, but he was no closer to finding the right words to say to fix Harvey. It was hard, the way Harvey’s shirt was open a few buttons and his bowtie was undone, but Mike was an adult, or so he kept telling himself. Here was a friend in need.

“Harvey, man, you know I’m here to help you. And I don’t mean just as your associate. If you need a place to crash,” Mike withered inwardly with the realization he had just presumed to invite Harvey Specter to his hovel of an apartment, “or anything. All of the cleanup and stuff in here, I’m your man.” As soon as he said it, Mike had to admit that sounded pretty lame, even to him. But it seemed like Harvey got the sentiment. He leaned forward to sit up more on the couch and pierce Mike with another of his laser stares, but he put his hand to brace himself down on Mike’s where it was resting on the seat of the couch.

Quickly pulling away with a mumbled “Sorry.” Harvey busied himself with his wine.

Mike felt heat filling his cheeks like a bad sunburn, and shrugged. “Well, I  _did_  say ‘anything’.” He said, trying to make light of the situation.

Harvey’s eyes flashed toward him again, and Harvey took on the calculating look he wore when weighing settlement offers.  _Oh hell_ , Mike thought. And though he could hardly blame it on the wine it certainly didn’t hurt that they were both on their third glass as he leaned over on the couch and gently, almost like a chaste schoolgirl, kissed Harvey on the mouth. At first Harvey was frozen, and Mike started to pull away, reflecting that at least if it was only going to happen once it was even better than he had imagined, when a firm hand grasped the back of his neck and held him as Harvey forced his way into Mike’s mouth like a man in a desert assaulting a mirage. The kiss turned into a miniature tableaux of Harvey’s fight earlier in the night, with bites and grasps exchanged on both sides.

Finding Harvey willing, Mike shifted to get out of his awkward sitting-lean and stretch his body out along the couch, between Harvey’s legs. He was astounded to brush up against a tautness in Harvey’s pants during this maneuver, and got a little careless where he put his hands. Harvey moaned— _Mother of God that voice_  Mike thought, immediately before  _Oh shit!_  as he realized he had dug into a huge bruise on Harvey’s shoulder.  He reasoned that it would make the most sense to be able to see the bruises so he could avoid them, and started unbuttoning Harvey’s shirt. Harvey, meanwhile, took this as permission to help Mike out of his t-shirt, so in short order they were both taking in the sight of each other shirtless in the half-light.

Harvey grinned ever so slightly in spite of his swollen cheek. Mike’s body had the slight definition of a runner. Mike frowned. Harvey’s body bore the ugly shades of a boxer. In addition to what he had been able to see before, there were significant contusions along one side of Harvey’s ribcage and what looked like defensive marks on his arms from trying to shield from those blows.

“Harv….” Mike murmured as he slid down to place light kisses on every bruise that decorated Harvey’s torso like a Jackson Pollack, not even caring that normally both of them would have balked at such an idiotic abbreviation. Working his way up, Mike eventually made it all the way to Harvey’s cheek before resting his chin on Harvey’s sternum and looking into his eyes again. He was surprised to find them lit with a desire he, not being a leggy young woman, had never seen before from Harvey. He leaned up, without looking away, to hover scant inches from Harvey’s lips, but didn’t kiss him. Harvey tried to bodily lean forward into Mike, but it was mostly a symbolic effort given his injuries, and he sighed the most unintendedly pathetic huff as he relaxed back into the couch. Mike didn’t look away, and belatedly Harvey’s brain realized Mike was waiting for him to say something. For once, words failed Harvey Specter.

Eventually, Mike got up and went to the door, wedging a chair under the handle.

Harvey watched him closely, and as Mike returned to the couch, he bit his lip before spitting the words out in a rush. “Look Mike, I’m new at this and I don’t even really I mean the situation is crazy…” Just mentioning it, Harvey reminded himself of the invasion he had been so willing to forget in favor of Mike’s lips. Mike just put his index finger to Harvey’s lips as he lowered himself back onto the couch.

“I don’t usually bat for this team either.” Mike said as he opened Harvey’s belt and used it to pull Harvey over him. “But I think under the circumstances anything goes.” He kissed Harvey gently but fully and leaned up to whisper in his ear, “The only rules are, he with bruises stays on top to avoid accidents, and you promise to tell me if something makes you uncomfortable, physically or otherwise.”

\---/---/---

They didn’t go all the way that night, but as the sun broke over the New York skyline and Harvey asked if Mike would just hold him as he nuzzled his face into the crook of Mike’s neck, Mike knew in his bones this wasn’t a one-time thing.


End file.
